The Golden Calf

by Ilya Ilf

  “Panikovsky,” said Ostap, “your assignment for today was to encounter our defendant and again ask him for a million, accompanying your request with idiotic laughter.”

  “The moment he saw me he crossed to the other side of the street,” replied Panikovsky smugly.

  “Good. Everything is going according to plan. The client is getting nervous. Right now he is progressing from stupefied confusion to unprovoked fear. I have no doubt that he wakes up in the middle of the night and babbles meekly: ‘Mama, Mama . . .’ Another small push, the slightest thing, the last stroke of the brush, and he’ll be ripe for the picking. Wailing, he’ll open his cupboard and take out a blue-rimmed platter . . .”

  Ostap winked at Balaganov, Balaganov winked at Panikovsky, Panikovsky winked at Kozlevich. And even though the honest Kozlevich didn’t understand a thing, he too began winking with both of his eyes.

  For a while after that, the room in the Carlsbad Hotel was filled with friendly winking, giggling, tongue clicking, and even some jumping up from the red plush armchairs.

  “Enough of that,” said Ostap. “For now, the money platter is still in Koreiko’s hands—that is, if this magic platter does exist.”

  And then Bender sent Panikovsky and Kozlevich back to the hostel, with instructions to have the Antelope ready at a moment’s notice.

  “Well, Shura,” he said, once he was alone with Balaganov, “no more telegrams. Our preparatory work can be considered complete. The active struggle begins. We’re going to go and observe our precious calf at his place of employment.”

  Staying in the transparent shade of the acacias, the half-brothers walked through the public garden, where a thick water jet from the fountain was melting like a candle, passed by a few mirrored beer joints, and stopped at the corner of Mehring Street. Flower ladies with red sailor’s faces bathed their delicate wares in glazed bowls. The asphalt, heated by the sun, sizzled under their feet. People were coming out of the blue-tiled milk bar, wiping kefir from their lips.

  A welcoming glow came from the fat, noodle-shaped, gilded-wood letters that formed the word Hercules. The sun frolicked in the huge glass panels of the revolving door. Ostap and Balaganov entered the hallway and joined the crowd of people who were there on business.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE HERCULEANS

  A long procession of the Hercules’ directors tried to banish the ghosts of the hotel from the building, but no matter how hard each of them tried, they all ultimately failed. No matter how many times Maintenance painted over the old signs, they still showed through everywhere. One day, the words Private Dining Rooms popped up in the Sales Department, then a watermark, Maid on Duty, suddenly became visible on the frosted-glass door of the typing pool; another time, painted golden fingers, with the word Ladies’ in French, appeared on the walls. The hotel just wouldn’t quit.

  Lower-level employees sat in one-ruble rooms on the fourth floor—the kind that used to be frequented by country priests who were attending diocesan conferences, or minor salesmen with Warsaw-style mustaches. These rooms had pink metal sinks and still smelled of armpits. Department heads, their assistants, and the head of Maintenance occupied the nicer rooms, where pool sharks and provincial actors used to stay. These rooms were a bit better: they had mirrored wardrobes and floors covered with reddish-brown linoleum. The top administrators nested in deluxe rooms with bathtubs and alcoves. The white bathtubs were filled with files, while the walls of the dim alcoves were covered with diagrams and charts that depicted the organizational structure of the Hercules and its network of local affiliates. Rooms like this still contained silly gold-painted love seats, carpets, and night stands with marble tops. Some alcoves even had heavy nickel-plated beds with ball knobs. The beds were also covered with files and all kinds of correspondence. It was very convenient, since the papers were always at hand.

  Back in 1911, the famous writer Leonid Andreev stayed in one of these rooms—No. 5. All the Herculeans knew about it, and for some reason, No. 5 had a bad reputation in the building.

  Every administrator who had set up their offices in this room had gotten into some kind of trouble. The moment a No. 5 would become more or less comfortable with his new responsibilities, he’d be demoted and transferred to another position. If he was lucky, there would be no formal reprimand. But at times there was a reprimand; at other times there would be an article in the paper; and sometimes it was much worse—it’s unpleasant even to think about it.

  “That room is cursed,” complained the victims afterwards. “But who knew?”

  And so the author of the scary story, The Seven Who Were Hanged, was held responsible for terrible things: Comr. Lapshin giving jobs to his own six mighty brothers; Comr. Spravchenko, hoping that the tree-bark collection campaign would somehow take care of itself, thus making said campaign a total failure; or Comr. Indochinov losing 7,384.03 rubles of state funds in a game of cards. And no matter how Indochinov wiggled, no matter how he tried to convince the authorities that the 0.03 rubles were spent on state business, and that he could produce documentation in support of this claim, nothing helped. The ghost of the late writer was implacable, and one fall evening, Indochinov was escorted to the slammer. Room No. 5 was definitely no good.

  The director of the entire Hercules, Comr. Polykhaev, had his office in what used to be the winter garden, and his secretary, Impala Mikhailovna, would pop up here and there amid the surviving palms and ficus. This same area also contained a long table, like a train station platform, that was covered with thick crimson fabric; this was the site of frequent and lengthy board meetings. In addition, Room 262, which used to be the snack bar, was recently taken over by the Purge Committee, eight unremarkable men with dull gray eyes. They came in punctually every day and were always reading some kind of official-looking papers.

  As Ostap and Balaganov were climbing the stairs, an alarm bell went off, and the staff immediately started pouring out of every room. Everyone moved quickly, it felt like an emergency on a ship. The bell didn’t signal an emergency, however; it called for the morning break. Some of the employees rushed to the cafeteria, in order to secure a red caviar sandwich for themselves. Others walked up and down the hallways, eating on the go.

  A remarkably noble-looking man came out of the Planning Department. A young, rounded beard hung from his pale, kind face. He was holding a cold meat patty, which he kept bringing to his mouth, examining it carefully each time.

  His routine was almost interrupted by Balaganov, who wished to know where they could find Finance and Accounting.

  “Can’t you see, Comrade, that I’m having a bite to eat?” said the man, turning away from Balaganov indignantly.

  And then, ignoring the half-brothers, he immersed himself in studying the last remaining morsel of the meat patty. He examined it carefully from all sides, even sniffed it goodbye, and finally placed it in his mouth. Then he puffed out his chest, cleaned the crumbs off his jacket, and slowly approached another employee, who was standing near the door to his department.

  “So, how are you feeling?” he asked after looking around.

  “Don’t even ask, Comrade Bomze,” the other one answered. Then he looked around and added: “What kind of life is that? No room for individuality. Same stuff over and over again: the Five-Year Plan in four years, in three years . . .”

  “I know,” whispered Bomze, “it’s just terrible! I couldn’t agree more. Like you said, no room for individuality, no incentives, no personal growth. My wife stays at home, of course, and even she says there are no incentives, no personal growth.”

  Sighing, Bomze moved on to another co-worker.

  “So, how are you feeling?” he asked, a sad smile already on his face.

  “You know,” said the other, “I just came back from a business trip. Got to see a state farm. Incredible. A grain factory! You can’t imagine, my friend, what the Five-Year Plan means, what the will of the collective really means!”

  “But that’s exactly what I wa
s just saying!” Bomze exclaimed enthusiastically. “That’s right, the will of the collective! The Five-Year Plan in four years, even in three—that’s the incentive that . . . Take my own wife. She stays at home—yet even she appreciates industrialisation. The new life is emerging in front of our eyes, damn it!”

  He stepped aside and shook his head cheerfully. A minute later he was already holding the quiet Borisokhlebsky by the sleeve and saying:

  “You’re right, I agree with you. Why build all those Magnitogorsks, state farms, and combine harvesters when there’s no private life, when individuality is suppressed?”

  The next minute, his somewhat weak voice was already murmuring in the stairwell:

  “And that’s exactly what I was saying to Comrade Borisokhlebsky just now. Why mourn individuality and private life when grain factories are rising in front of our eyes? Magnitogorsks, combine harvesters, concrete mixers; when the collective . . .”

  During the break, Bomze, who greatly enjoyed these meaningful exchanges, managed to shoot the breeze with about a dozen of his co-workers. The mood of each exchange could be determined from his facial expression, which quickly moved from sadness about the suppression of individuality to a bright enthusiastic smile. But whatever emotions he experienced at any given moment, an expression of innate nobility never left his face. And everybody, from the ideologically up-to-snuff members of the local union committee to the politically backward Kukushkind, considered Bomze an honest man and even a man of principle. Then again, his own opinion of himself was no different.

  The new bell announced an end to the emergency and returned the employees to their hotel rooms. Work resumed.

  As a matter of fact, the words “work resumed” did not exactly describe the activities at the Hercules, which, according to its charter, was supposed to be engaged in the lumber and timber trade. During the last year, however, the Herculeans had abandoned all thoughts of such mundane things as logs, plywood, export-quality cedar, and the like. Instead, they immersed themselves in a more exhilarating pursuit: the fight for their building, their dearly beloved hotel.

  It all started with a small sheet of paper that a slow-moving messenger from the city’s Municipal Affairs Department brought in his canvas delivery bag.

  “Upon receiving this,” read the paper, “you are requested to vacate the premises of the former Hotel Cairo within a period of one week and to transfer the building, along with all the equipment of the former hotel, to the jurisdiction of the Hotel Department. You are assigned the premises of the former Tin and Bacon Co. See: City Council resolution of June 12, 1929.”

  In the evening, the paper was placed in front of Comrade Polykhaev, who sat in the electric shade of the palms and the ficus.

  “What!” exploded the director of the Hercules indignantly. “They tell me I’m ‘requested!’ Me, who reports directly to the Center! What is wrong with them? Are they out of their minds?”

  “They might as well have said ‘instructed,’” Impala Mikhailovna said, adding fuel to the fire. “Such arrogance!”

  “They can’t be serious,” said Polykhaev, smiling ominously.

  A most forthright response was composed immediately. The director of the Hercules flatly refused to vacate the premises.

  “Next time they’ll know I’m not their night watchman, and they’d better not write ‘requested’ to me,” mumbled Comrade Polykhaev, taking a rubber stamp with his signature out of his pocket and applying it upside down in agitation.

  Once again a slow-moving messenger, this time the one from the Hercules, trudged down the sun-drenched streets, stopping at refreshment stands, getting involved in all the street squabbles on the way, and waving his delivery bag with abandon.

  For the entire week after that, the Herculeans discussed the new situation. The employees basically agreed that Polykhaev was not about to swallow such a challenge to his authority.

  “You don’t know our Polykhaev,” said the eagles from Finance and Accounting. “He’s seen it all. He won’t budge because of some lousy resolution.”

  Shortly thereafter, Comrade Bomze emerged from the principal’s office with a list of select employees in his hand. He went from department to department, leaning over each person named on the list and whispering secretively:

  “A small get-together. Three rubles each. To say goodbye to Polykhaev.”

  “What?” the chosen people would react with alarm. “Is Polykhaev leaving? Is he being reassigned?”

  “No, no. He’s going to the Center to see about the building. So don’t be late. Eight o’clock sharp, at my place.”

  The good-bye party was a lot of fun. Polykhaev sat holding a goblet, while the employees looked at him admiringly and clapped their hands in unison, singing:

  Drink it up, drink it up, drinkitup.

  Drink it up, drink it up, drinkitup.

  They sang until their beloved director had emptied a substantial number of goblets and a few tall thin glasses as well. He then took his turn and started singing in an unsteady voice: “On that old Kaluga Highway, near milepost forty-nine . . .” But nobody ever found out what exactly happened near that milepost, because Polykhaev, without warning, switched to a different song:

  On the streetcar number four

  Someone dropped dead by the door.

  Now they drag the stiff away,

  Whooptie-doo! Hop, hey-hey . . .

  After Polykhaev left, productivity at the Hercules dropped a little. It would have been silly to work hard without knowing whether you’re staying put or will be forced to traipse to the Tin and Bacon Co. with all your stationery. But it would have been even sillier to work hard after Polykhaev came back. He returned a conquering hero, as Bomze put it: the Hercules got to keep its building, and so the employees spent their office hours making fun of Municipal Affairs.

  The crushed opponent asked to at least be given the sinks and the armored beds, but Polykhaev, riding the crest of his success, didn’t even respond. Then the hostilities resumed. The Center was inundated with complaints. Polykhaev went there in person to refute them. The triumphant “drinkitup” was heard at Bomze’s place with ever-increasing frequency, and an ever-increasing number of Herculeans were sucked into the fight for the building. Lumber and timber were gradually forgotten. When Polykhaev occasionally found something relating to export-quality cedar or plywood on his desk, he was so flabbergasted that, at first, he didn’t even understand what they wanted from him. At the moment, he was immersed in a crucial task—luring two particularly dangerous employees from Municipal Affairs with an offer of higher salaries.

  “You’re in luck,” said Ostap to his companion. “You’re witnessing an amusing exercise—Ostap Bender in hot pursuit. Watch and learn! A petty criminal like Panikovsky would have written Koreiko a note: ‘Put six hundred rubles under the trash can outside or else’—and added a cross, a skull, and a candle at the bottom. Sonka the Golden Hand, whose skills I am by no means trying to denigrate, in the end would have resorted to a simple honeytrap, which would have brought her perhaps fifteen hundred. A woman, what can you expect? Or take Cornet Savin, if you will. An outstanding swindler. As the saying goes, a swindler through and through. And what would he have done? He would have gone to Koreiko’s home, claiming to be the Tsar of Bulgaria, made a scene at the building manager’s office, and messed the whole thing up. Me, I’m not in a hurry, you can see that. We’ve been in Chernomorsk for a full week, and I’m only now headed to our first date . . . Ah, here’s Finance and Accounting. Well, rally mechanic, show me the patient. You are an expert on Koreiko, after all.”

  The deafening hall was full of visitors. Balaganov led Bender to the corner where Chevazhevskaya, Koreiko, Kukushkind, and Dreyfus sat behind a yellow divider. Balaganov raised his hand to point out the millionaire, when Ostap angrily whispered:

  “Why don’t you yell at the top of your lungs: ‘There he is, the rich guy! Hold him!’ Quiet now. Let me guess. Which one of the four?”

 
Ostap settled down on the cool marble window sill and, dangling his feet like a child, began thinking aloud:

  “The young lady doesn’t count. That leaves three choices: the red-faced toady with white eyes, the little old man in steel glasses, and the fat pooch with the dead-serious expression on his face. I indignantly reject the little old man. He’s got no valuables, unless you count the cotton stuck in his furry ears. That leaves two: the pooch-face and the white-eyed toady. Which one of them is Koreiko? Let me think.”

  Ostap stuck his neck out and began comparing the two candidates. He turned his head quickly, as if he was watching a game of tennis and following every volley with his eyes.

  “You know, mechanic,” he said finally, “the fat pooch-face fits the image of an underground millionaire better than the white-eyed toady. Note the twinkle of alarm in the pooch’s eyes. He’s restless, he can’t wait, he wants to run home and sink his paws into his bags of gold. No doubt he’s the one collecting carats and dollars. Can’t you see his fat mug is nothing but an egalitarian blend of the faces of Shylock, the Miserly Knight, and Harpagon? And White Eyes—he’s nothing, a zero, a Soviet mouseling. He does have a fortune, of course—twelve rubles in the savings bank. His dreams don’t stretch beyond the purchase of a fuzzy coat with a calfskin collar. This is not Koreiko. This is a mouse that . . .”

  At this point the grand strategist’s brilliant speech was interrupted by a lion-hearted shout that came from the depths of Finance and Accounting, and it clearly belonged to somebody who had the right to shout:

  “Comrade Koreiko! Where are the stats on what Municipal Affairs owes us? Comrade Polykhaev needs them right now.”

  Ostap kicked Balaganov with his foot. But Pooch-Face continued to scratch with his pen, unperturbed. His face—the one that combined the characteristics of Shylock, Harpagon, and the Miserly Knight—showed no emotion. The red-faced blond with white eyes, on the other hand, this zero, this Soviet mouseling who dreamed of nothing but a coat with a calfskin collar, became very agitated. He started banging his desk drawers hurriedly, grabbed a sheet of paper, and rushed off to answer the call.